1/ Day by Day
"You can get up, class is over."
Artificial light still illuminates the classroom even as the clock in the corner duly ticks towards five past noon. The glare makes me want to rub my eyes, but that would be rude to the only other person present. He rummages through his briefcase and takes out two round Tupperware containers.
"Gotta run, so let's make this quick." Mr. Stevenson's lips may be puckered but his eyes aren't furrowed. He should be rushing out before the line for the teacher's microwave gets as long as the cafeteria chicken finger line. "Got a good reason for sleeping in class?"
"Yesterday's Mass went pretty late," I manage to say without yawning.
Mr. Stevenson nods as if he expected something that wholesome from a wholesome kid like me.
"Well, it's only your second time so I'll let it slip. Just don't set a bad example for the other kids, okay? You're a good kid, so I'm counting on you for that."
He grabs a snack-sized packet of Let's out of his bag in reply to my short smile.
"Want 'em?"
Before I can answer they land on my pencil tin - official merchandise of a ironic webcomic that's "so last year" - with an initial crackle before a softer crunch. Original flavor. Probably the last packet from a Costco case.
"Cutting this month," he explains without being asked before rushing out the door to microwave what must be his meal prep.
Ruminating on the chips, I make my way through the school corridors. It's hard not feel the oppressive spirit of the institution when it's scrawled onto butcher paper emblazoning the walls. Some of the people I come across say hi, but everyone's in too much of a subdued rush to get to the cafeteria to stop for conversation. Chicken fingers today. It's the panko, some of the kids will tell you. But a bag of Panko is two dollars at Alberstons. Nah bruh, they get the same chicken as McDonalds; it's like eating a huge McNugget. No matter who you talk to, they will always stretch out the "huge."
I stop at my locker, drop my bag, fiddle with the combination, fail once, make a face at my locker, and try again before retrieving two thermos'.
"Reckon Mr. Stevenson is a Costco dad?"
Kayla looks up at me from the speckled, pale linoleum floor, opens her mouth to say something, closes it, and then opens it once more to assert, "Dude, I've seen his wife at Whole Foods. He's too young to have kids, yeah." She animatedly shakes her head with the last statement.
"Doesn't stop him from being a Costco dad."
"I'm pretty sure you have to be a dad before you can be a Costco dad." Her head bobs up and down in a series of half-nods.
"Yesterday's leftovers." I hand Kayla a thermos from the bag. "Weird how warm they are."
"Hot pot beats chicken fingers any day, but like this looks so good." She immediately unscrews the thermos and digs in. "Cherry's so cool."
"You don't even like seafood."
"I like whatever Cherry cooks and err - yeah, sushi."
"Half-priced California rolls aren't really sushi." With a little huff, I stab my plastic fork into a piece of cod. It's not quite fit to eat just yet. Deftly, I take out a packet of wasabi, tear a slit with my teeth and squeeze out a pea-sized dollop onto the fish before putting it in my mouth. Usually, "Wasabi Chris" has a tube on hand but I was in a rush this morning, so I only have the packets I keep in my bag.
"Half-priced California rolls aren't really sushi because they're the best sushi," Kayla fills her mouth with shrimp. "You're so lucky to have someone who cooks food like this for you everyday."
Genuine food. Genuine conversation. Fake relationship. Perhaps the only way that it can stand being this fake due to the underlying sincerity.
She hands me the empty thermos when she's finished eating, "Thanks for lunch."
"You know, Cherry actually thinks that we're dating."
A slight frown pushes her features back when she responds, "Sorry, so does my dad," with a lowered voice.
You just moved from New York to this town slightly less in the middle of nowhere than Bakersfield. Your superlative was "most quiet" in middle school but you've become slightly high-school attractive since then. You hate the spotlight, yet are still rather thrilled with the attention that comes with being the "new girl." Rightly nervous about fitting in at this school, you feign poise, trying to convince others that you're pretty "lit" but still "chill af" before you're labelled as the quiet kid all over again. So, you do something that the New York you would never do. The most obvious thing to convince your dad and everyone else at school that you fit is to imitate every movie and song targeted towards teenage girls. You get a boyfriend. But you don't believe you have the confidence or the special something that the popular girls have to transpose film into reality so you settle for convincing a non-threatening boy to be your pretend boyfriend. That's me. Why?
"Everyone likes you 'cause like... I mean, you're easy to talk to."
"Really?"
"And you seem like you're good at pretending. Umm, like you would be good as a good actor, you know… sorry."
Those were the words you mumbled to me when you exhausted all the fear-tinged courage you pulled from realizing if you didn't do something this radical you would fall back into that middle school you no matter how far away you were from where you grew up. Theater-kid jab aside, you don't have to force yourself to apologize then smile when you say something like that. We don't know each other too well, but I probably like you, anyway. After all, why else would I agree?
Like that, my fake RomCom consisting of a lunchtime each day, the farmer's market every Thursday night, and a pretend date a few times a month burgeoned. Does any more need to be?
"So yeah, you doing anything after school today?"
"Yeah. Cherry wants me to pick up a pie. The old man's birthday."
"Oh... cool." She smiles and looks down before looking slightly back up. "You're the only person I know who calls his dad, old man."
He is an old man.
The town did try to shut this cafe down. What was wrong with Kreuzberg, they exclaimed. Why name a new one after a Nazi think-tank? Like that, the new coffee shop became the talk of the town for about a week. There were even town hall meetings about it. Cherry and Father Kelsey attended a few. Something about the Mission making sure everyone kept a level head. At the end, the smooth talking interim manager who was also the head chef made the argument that the franchise had spread as far as Japan and even had a store in Romania. Apparently, the name was thought up by the German owner and this cafe happened to either be his inheritance or the inheritance he would leave behind. Hearing this, the cafe gained some support from the folks at Beda's and the other German establishments in town. Eventually, the town just threw up their arms. The cafe market was already too saturated, the housewives proclaimed to each other before spin, Ahnenerbe would be gone in less than a year.
It's been over three years.
"Picking up a large blueberry pie for Cherry." I tell one of the waitresses who everyone calls "Green."
She looks underneath the lacquered counter for a second, "Let me check with the kitchen."
I smile in place of an answer.
"Sorry, is ten minutes okay? Do you want something while you wait?" She says after returning slightly flustered.
After telling her it's no problem, I'm left with her abandoned flip phone while she attends to two chatting short-haired blond women. In less than a minute the store cats swamp me. This store has quite a few cats. Maybe the manager has a habit of picking up strays? If NorCal and SoCal have their premier cat cafes then the Central Coast has got to keep up, doesn't it?
"Meow, Meow," That's from the little girl who creeps up the stool next to mine.
The cats all hiss at her before scattering. "You know - they don't like you, Curie."
She shakes her head. Her black hair almost seems blue and green in the dimmed light. "They like me when you're not here. They're funny, especially the one who smokes."
"Wow, that's interesting." My wavering voice tries its best to hold the disbelief in my stomach. Time to quickly change the subject, "Did that no-good Detective leave you on your own again?"
"Toilet."
Speak of the toilet. The Detective struts towards us in his monochrome trench coat and expensive skinny jeans.
"Oh, it's you, kid. Your pretend girlfriend dump you yet?"
Try as he might to get people to call him Detective, he's still just a PI. A PI with a little girl as an assistant, both of whom I have only ever seen in this cafe. Questionable, I know. But, we're regulars so we have little choice but to afford the other a modicum of respect. He might give off the impression of a side dish Cherry makes when cucumbers are on sale, but still he's a person.
"She's doing pretty well. Thanks for asking. You two on a case?"
He looks at me with a half-scowl. I must remind him of some kid that he couldn't stand with and without. "Better watch out, kid. Word is something bad's going down in that town of yours."
I nod, "That's why we got this blueberry pie."
"Blueberry pie!" Curie's eyes sparkle. "Detective, pie! Pie!"
"Shut it, girl. Hey, waitress!" He calls out to the fluttering twin-tails that were just about to slip into the kitchen. "Nitro cold brew and don't skimp on the Ceylon cinnamon." He looks back at me. "Advice - regular to regular. Couldn't care less about you, but don't let that woman who takes care of you get caught in this mess."
A clear ring interrupts him.
"Order 27, blueberry pie," A voice with the charisma of a fake priest, the timbre of a zoology professor, and the composure of a Buddhist monk calls out.
I pay with the bill Cherry gave me this morning before taking the paper bag.
"Thanks for the advice, Detective. This pie smells delightful, so I better get home while it's hot."
He shakes his head and dismisses me with a few waves.
"Hey, Chris." The little girl looks at me, "Don't die, okay? The cats and the Detective will be sad."
I don't know what to say.
"If you're scared, just come to me." She smiles and it must be a trick of the light because it almost looks like she has chelicerae, "I'll make sure you live forever."
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind." I wave goodbye to the pouting little girl and leave the cafe with delicious blueberry pie in tow.
Winters in Tolosa are rather mild since we're only twenty minutes from the beach, an hour in severe summer traffic. It can get a little misty around the Seven Sisters in the early morning, but afternoons are always hot. That afternoon heat dissipates a few hours after sunset, so families and small crowds strolling and window shopping around this time aren't an uncommon sight. I say that because halfway home, I shivered. I shivered even if there was no wind, the sun was still peaking over the horizon, and I was wearing my school sweatshirt. Then again, none of those things are much protection against a tidal wave of magical energy crashing into your body.
"They have the worst timing." I scold the blueberry pie.